This week I'll wend my way to the great southwest and try to pay attention in writers workshops and lectures, with other writers polishing their skills. The winter season has been kind this year and a lesser challenge than most winters here. Even so, I loathe being cold, so I look forward to sunshine and warmer air, with clear skies and starry nights. I'm currently experiencing a lot of pain, and know I'll be spending time with physicians when I return. I am a true wuss and generally neglect myself. Whatever is wrong lets me sleep through the night,so I have been able to postpone sleuthing with someone able to figure it out. Trekking airports won't be easy, though.
When I am over whatever this hump is, my intent is to throw myself at the memoir and complete it. A further goal is to send, send, send essays and excerpts to literary magazines to see if someone, anyone, will show interest in printing me. I find this part of writing tedious and defeating. Try as I might, I cannot get past some blind spot I seem to have about which publishers want personal essays, never mind that they say they do. I seem to be choosing wrong. and I can't figure out what I don't get. I see that in some cases what is printed is way, way out of my league. I can live with that, I get it. But there are some magazines printing stuff several cuts beneath mine. And they pass on me, too. I must just keep truckin'.
I suppose someday it will so clear that I won't be able to figure out what escaped me, but not now, Bud. Not. Now.